


While the Nights Away

by renecdote



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred is the real hero, Brief cameo by Oracle, Gen, Grief, Sleep Deprivation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, references to canon character death, truly he's a godsend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 17:37:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12438120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: Jason dies; Bruce spirals; Alfred to the rescue.





	While the Nights Away

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a whumptober prompt on Tumblr: Bruce + self inflicted or sleep deprivation.

Alfred flutters on the edge of his periphery, disapproving and concerned but oddly silent. Bruce can't be sure it's really Alfred, though, because the other person that he keeps catching out of the corner of his eye wears a red hoodie and a yellow cape and isn't real. (No matter how much he wishes otherwise.)

It's only when he's completely absorbed in the latest puzzle of a case that either of them vanish from his awareness. So he keeps pushing himself. Another case, another puzzle, another few hours gone past in blissful, hazy concentration. Sandwiches keep growing stale by his side and mugs of fresh tea or coffee keep appearing, so he assumes, in the small part of his brain he hasn't shut off and dedicated to the latest string of fishy murders in the East End, that Alfred is still around. He doesn't look up to check though (is afraid of what else - who else - he might see).

One of the auxiliary monitors chimes, alerting him to a finished analysis of a blood sample found at the latest crime scene, and Bruce swivels in his chair to check it. He feels the hot touch of ceramic against his forearm a second too late, takes another half a second to snap his hand out, fingers grasping at the falling mug and then-

The smash makes him jump. It's too loud, deafening in the silent cave, like a bomb going off beside his ear.

(Like _the_ bomb going off.)

He stands up, pushes away from the desk hurriedly, and stumbles toward the batsuit. The Cave, big as it may be, is suddenly suffocating. Solving the case (what was it again? murderous clowns? no, cult sacrifices) isn't working anymore. There are too many distractions, too many reminders of another bloody body. He needs to get out, get some air, rough up a few unlucky criminals. He needs to feel something real under his hands. He needs to feel in control.

But control is the furthest things from what he feels right now. His limbs feel heavy and sluggish but somehow disconnected from his body as he fumbles to open the Batmobile’s door and slide into the driver’s side. The car comes alive at his command, hoarse as it may be, and Bruce has to take a few seconds to blink away the watering in his eyes. All the buttons and lights that once made him feel like a kid on Christmas morning now confuse him. He is not, he realises, in any condition to drive, but he can't remember which switch engages autopilot and his thoughts are too muddled to string the words together to tell the car what to do. So he swipes at his eyes one more time then slams his foot down and peels out of the Batcave at a speed that would make Alfred cringe.

It only takes a second. Less than, maybe. The weight of exhaustion drags his eyelids down, he just means to blink, but his head is nodding and cars are honking and-

He has time for one sluggish, disorientating thought that this isn't good before-

Nothing.

Why?

“ _Good evening, Batman._ ” The electronic, modulated voice doesn't leave room for a disapproving tone, but there's something about the green face that appears in the Batmobile’s computer screen which seems unusually critical. “ _Shall I help you find your way home?_ ”

Bruce stares, eyes scratchy and uncomprehending, as the Batmobile executes a perfect u-turn and merges into the outbound traffic. He keeps his hands clenched around the steering wheel even though he knows better to try wrestling control back from Oracle (and he's not sure he even has the brain power to try right now). She's being oddly passive aggressive for someone unafraid to tell him he's fucked up. His mind throws up images of sympathy and grief and he quashes them ruthlessly, decides not to analyse too closely why Barbara is being nicer than she would have been if he'd fallen asleep behind the wheel a month ago. It would inevitably lead to thinking about-

No. He can't. It's too raw, too painful, if he thinks about it now he'll shatter. (If only he could not think about anything.)

Alfred says nothing when the Batmobile glides to a stop and Bruce staggers out. He merely holds up a needle and asks, “Will you do it yourself or shall I?”

“I don't need to sleep,” Bruce says because what he really wants to say - I don't want to dream - feels too much like admitting weakness. Batman can't be weak, he has to be strong, so he can protect people. Save people.

(“And you've done a wonderful job of that so far,” the boy in red snarls from the sidelines.)

“Master Bruce.” It's soft and gentle and Bruce thinks he should be irritated by the tone but instead it makes him want to cry. The last time he remembers Alfred sounding like that, he'd been sitting in a police station, a too-big coat wrapped around his shoulders and his heart torn to shreds by the injustice of the world. He hadn't wanted to sleep that night either. But the butler had sat beside him on his bed and said, “When you wake up in the morning, they'll still be gone. But you will have woken up and survived another day. And that, my dear boy, is what your parents would want most.”

Tonight he says, “Working yourself into an early grave will not bring him back.”

But it might bring me to him. He bites his tongue to stop the words from tumbling out. He doesn't want to die, not really, he just wants Jason to be alive again.

“I miss him,” he confesses, choking on the words. “Everytime I close my eyes, I see it all over again, but no matter what I do, how I think myself around it, I open them and he's still dead.”

“Do you remember what you said to me the night your parents died?” Alfred asks. “It was almost exactly the same thing. And do you do remember what I told you?”

_One day you will open your eyes your first thought won't be sadness that they're gone, it will be happiness that you had the time together that you did._

Alfred’s face is as stoic as ever but his voice sounds a little strained when he continues, “That day will not come if you end up dead in a five car pileup before this week is over.” He clears his throat. “Now, will you do it yourself or shall I?”

Bruce offers his arm and lets him inject the sedative. He clumsily sheds the batsuit and collapses on one of the cots in the medbay, too exhausted to even contemplate going up to his bedroom. Alfred bustles around the edge of his awareness, a lifeline, tangible and real. Slowly, Bruce relaxes, mind drifting into a numb, blissful state of unconsciousness. Darkness tinged with bright, cheerful, cherry red.

He does not dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [here](http://tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com).


End file.
